


there will be light

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26036638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: The summer is ending with petrichor and melancholy in the air, and Crowley stares at the ceiling dully.(for Round 4 of the Soft Omens server Guess-The-Author game. the prompt was 'a gift')
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56
Collections: SOSH - Guess the Author #04 "A Gift"





	there will be light

**Author's Note:**

> note: when i say depression, this is my personal experience with how it manifests, but it's different for everyone

August rolls in on thunderstorms, rain that never seems to end and a dullness that hangs in the sky. Everything feels heavy, exhausting. The summer is ending with petrichor and melancholy in the air, and Crowley stares at the ceiling dully. 

He exists in a haze, a fuzzy kind of awareness that shifts the world in and out of focus at random, his attention rapidly grabbing and discarding things without a thought. There’s a low buzz of something ( _anxiety? stress? sadness?_ ) crackling beneath his skin; lightning in his veins, thunder in his blood. The storm builds.

Crowley’s eyelids struggle to stay open, the bed far too tempting. He could get up, maybe get some coffee. He could get up. It’s cold in this room. He turns his head, stares at the wall, and can’t find the energy to move. The clock ticks, five minutes, twenty, an hour; he loses track of the time, but it passes.

There’s a faint noise of shifting fabric, light footsteps, and then- the dark blue shadows are cut through with orange and gold, afternoon sunlight pouring into the room in wide rays, dust particles suddenly visible in the air. Crowley blinks, turns his head as the room brightens. Aziraphale is there at the window, drawing back the curtains, the familiar earth colors of his waistcoat and trousers a comforting streak of warm tones among the coldness. Aziraphale moves to the bed, sits himself on the edge, and stares down at Crowley with enough love to start a war. Crowley feels the air leave his lungs, and with it, goes the tension in his muscles, the nervous fluttering in his stomach, the haziness from his brain. Crowley inhales carefully, finds it comes easy, exhales. He’s awake. He’s here.

Crowley sits up, curls into Aziraphale and basks in the touch, unspeakably grateful, always, but especially in this moment. Aziraphale has always been good at making Crowley thankful he’s alive. He sighs.

“S’not fair, angel, lighting up the room like this. You're a bloody gift, you are.”

Crowley means it, means the light, the blue-sky-clarity, the way Aziraphale’s very presence lifts the heavy fog from the room. He means so much, ‘ _I love you, I need you, I'd be lost without you_ ’, but words. Words are a tangle between his mind and his tongue on a normal day, he’ll never get close to articulating his meaning like he wants to on a day like this, so he doesn’t try, just presses his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale only laughs, light rays through the clouds. 

Brushes a hand through Crowley’s hair. Presses a kiss to his temple. Smiles and understands, like he always does.

“Well, gifts are meant to give away, my dear.”

The summer is ending and Crowley has never felt so warm.


End file.
